


sneak snuggle attacks

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Lean On Me [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Multi, POV Clint Barton, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Slash, WinterWidowHawk, and he fucking gets one, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Clint has no idea how this whole spooning thing started.…okay, fine, he hassomeidea.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Series: Lean On Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855009
Comments: 33
Kudos: 263





	sneak snuggle attacks

**Author's Note:**

> The blame for this entirely rests on the group of enablers of the BDB discord :D thanks, friends.

Clint has no idea how this whole spooning thing started.

…okay, fine, he has _some_ idea. 

The first time it happened was after a particularly rough mission. He’d walked—limped, mostly—away from it with three cracked ribs, a fractured ulna, _another_ concussion, and a black eye that would make a raccoon jealous. 

Natasha had flipped out when he’d gotten back to his apartment, which he didn’t really understand until he’d looked in the mirror and realized he was also covered in blood. 

“Sorry,” he’d said, heading for his room. “Long…long mission. I just want to lay down.”

“What happened?”

He’d waved a hand. “Eh. The usual. Bad guys doing bad things. People needing saving. I was great, by the way. Very heroic.”

_Tell that to the ones you didn’t save,_ that little voice in his head mocked, and Clint closed his eyes against the memory of a dead woman’s face. It wasn’t any longer than a blink, but as soon as he opened them, he knew she’d seen it. 

“Just need to lay down,” he’d said again, and gestured to his room.

Her face was sympathetic, but her eyes screamed _if you lay down on your bed like that I will kill you._ So he’d let her push him into the shower, strip off his clothes and scrub him with a no-nonsense efficiency that was both helpful and also hurt like a _bitch_. 

“Ribs,” he’d gasped, when she moved the washcloth over his chest.

“ _Nye bud' takim rebyonkom_ ,” she’d retorted.

He started to protest—they were _cracked ribs_ , he wasn’t being a baby— but she eased up a bit anyway, and he managed to make it through the shower without screaming like a little girl. Then she’d toweled him off, helped him drag on some clothes, and walked him to his room.

“Thanks, Nat.” He’d laid down on his bed and arranged himself until his ribs weren’t screaming at him. “Wake me up in like…two hours?”

She snorted in derision. “Absolutely not.” Then she’d crawled into the bed behind him, slotted herself against his back, and carefully draped an arm over him.

Clint had startled at the touch—which, _ow_ —and started to turn over. “Nat, what—”

“Shut up,” she’d ordered. “And go to sleep.”

He settled back down into the bed. “Is this part of a plot to murder me in my sleep? Because I had a shitty day, and I really don’t need that.”

Natasha muttered something in Russian, then said, “I’m not going to murder you in your sleep, Clint. You’re tired and you’re beating yourself up over whatever happened out there.”

“I am not—”

“You are. So I’m staying. Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Wake me up in—”

“ _Clinton Francis Barton_ —”

“Okay, okay.” He’d dragged the blanket slightly higher, then gotten as comfortable as he could. Just before falling asleep, he’d clumsily patted her arm and muttered, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she whispered back, and he’d promptly passed out after that, soothed by the gentle sound of her breathing, and the steady pressure of her arm around his waist.

That was the first time. 

Weirdly enough, it wasn’t the last. The next mission he went on, he came back physically intact, but mentally, he was a hot mess. It had been Kate that time. She’d tugged the bow from his hands, directed him to his bed, and curled up behind him. 

_You don’t deserve this,_ some little part of him had protested, but her arms felt good around him, and he was so tired of _everything_ that he didn’t have it in him to push her off. So he’d let her stay, and just like with Natasha, he’d slept deeper and better than he probably would have on his own. 

Once was an interesting incident. Two was unusual, but explainable. But it happened again. It _kept_ happening. 

And now? Well, now apparently it’s a _thing_. Anytime he falls asleep, it’s a fifty-fifty chance that he’ll wake up with somebody else wrapped around him. Natasha and Kate are the usual culprits if he’s at home, but if he’s in lounge at the Tower, it’s anyone’s game. He’s woken up in Tony’s arms, and Steve’s, and on one memorable occasion, Thor’s. He keeps waiting for it to taper off—after all, it’s a joke, right? Surely they’ll get bored of it some day. 

Except they haven’t, yet, and this has been going on for almost three months. 

It’s getting dangerous now. Dangerous because he kind of likes it. Has since the start, really, even though he protested otherwise. But by this point he’s just sort of resigned himself to the fact that it’s happening, and now, well…now he almost gets disappointed if he wakes up alone. 

Which is stupid, really. He’s not entitled to their company. If they don’t want to waste their time with him, that’s fine. God knows he’s not worth it. 

Still, he can’t stop himself from side-eyeing Natasha in the jet on the way back from Chicago. It wasn’t really a mission, more of an Avengers PR stunt, but he’s still tired as shit, and could one-hundred percent go for a nap. A long, long nap.

Natasha glances at him and raises an eyebrow. “Something you need?”

“Just tired,” he says, flipping one of his arrows around his fingers. “Long day, you know.”

“Mmm.”

Clint glances around the jet. Everyone else looks tired too, even Steve, and Clint wonders distantly if he just crashes on the couch in the lounge if one of them will join him—

_Knock it off,_ he tells himself. _You can sleep alone. You’re a big boy._

Across from him, Bucky rubs a hand over his stubbly face and sighs. “I need to sleep,” he says. “I’m too old for this shit.”

Clint snorts. “You and me both.”

“The swan dive you took off the thirty-story building says otherwise.”

“I was being dramatic for the cameras,” Clint protests. “ _And_ I was testing my grappling hook arrows. Which work perfectly, by the way, so you owe me five bucks.”

“What? Do not.”

“Do too. Remember the other day when you walked past me and said ’Those will never work.’ And then I said, ‘yes, they will,’ and you said, ‘bet you five bucks’—”

Natasha glares at him. “We were all there,” she says. “We don’t need a recap.”

“Anyway,” Clint says, ignoring her. “They worked. Pay up, Barnes.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay you later,” he says. “I don’t take my wallet on missions.”

“You should,” Clint says, patting his. “Always good to have money. What if you run into a really good falafel cart or something? It’s important to stay fueled while fighting bad guys.”

Bucky stares at him with an incredulous look, then says, “You’re so goddamn weird, Barton.”

“You knew that before now, right? That’s not news or anything.”

The jet lands, and everyone troops out. “Okay,” Steve announces. “Morning training is cancelled.”

“It’s already morning,” Tony points out. 

“That’s why I’m canceling training, Stark. Get some sleep.”

Tony mutters something that sounds a lot like _sleep is for the weak_ and vanishes into his basement. Everyone else starts to drift off towards their respective floors. Clint looks at the couch, then debates if he wants to go back to Bed-Stuy for the night or just stay in the tower. Either way, he’s probably going to be alone. Kate’s gone, and so is Lucky, and it doesn’t look like anyone here is interested in being with him. 

Which is _fine_. He’s not really that tired. He’ll go shoot arrows or something—

“Barton,” Natasha says, and he turns to her. She jerks her head towards the elevator. “With me.”

Clint blinks, then scrambles after her. He at least manages to hide his dopey grin, preserving _some_ of his dignity. “Yes, ma’am.”

He follows her into the elevator, and she keys in her floor. Clint looks back as the doors close, just int time to see Bucky standing alone in the lounge, looking confused and a little lonely. 

“Hey,” Clint says. “Should we invite—”

She’s already reaching for the button. The doors open again, and Bucky tilts his head, confusion increasing.

“Barnes,” Natasha says. “Come here.”

Bucky’s forehead creases, but after a moment, he obeys the command and gets into the elevator with them. “What—”

“We’re going to bed,” Natasha says, like this is totally normal. The doors open onto her floor, and she leads them out. “Come on, I’m dead on my feet.”

Clint kicks off his shoes, then strips out of his shirt. Natasha makes a quiet noise of outrage as he drops it on the floor, and he sheepishly collects it, then folds it and puts it on the dresser before moving his shoes out of the way. 

Natasha does the same, baring herself with complete comfort before digging around in the dresser and pulling out one of Clint’s sweatshirts. “Don’t,” she says, cutting off his protest. “You didn’t even know it was missing until just now, am I right?”

“Fine,” he admits, pulling his pants off and folding them on top of his shirt. “Guess it’s only fair. I stole one of your dresses.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The green one?” He nods. “Should’ve gone with blue. Would’ve made your eyes stand out.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise and they turn to look at him. He’s looking back and forth between the two of them—Clint, stripped down to his boxers with the arrows on them, and Natasha wearing nothing more than his old sweatshirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. “Are you—are you sleeping together?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, because he’s an asshole. “Wanna join us?”

Bucky’s eyes just about bulge out of his head.

“Clint,” Natasha says disapprovingly, following it up with something extremely rude in what sounds like Turkish. She turns to Bucky. “In the literal sense, yes. I sometimes drag this idiot to bed with me, because he’s terrible at taking care of himself, and I like to make sure he’s sleeping like a semi-normal person.”

“I resent that implication,” Clint says. “I can take care of myself.” Bucky and Natasha both give him identical _you gotta be kidding me_ looks, and he ducks his head a little bit. “Okay, fine.”

“Anyway,” Natasha says, turning to Bucky. “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.” She pokes Clint in the side, right over a bruise, and smirks when he winces. “Bed. Now.”

“So rude,” Clint tells her, but he obediently crawls into bed, and she follows him. He makes a token effort to be the big spoon, but at her narrowed eyes, he sighs and lets her wrap around his back. Her arm slides over his chest, and he hears her make a soft, contented sound. 

Clint hides his smile and glances over at Bucky, who is still standing there, looking like nothing makes sense anymore.

“Dude,” he says, and Bucky blinks. “Take off the leather murder vest and come to bed, will you? I’m tired.”

Bucky mouths _leather murder vest_ with an incredulous look, but finally starts moving. It only takes a minute for him to undo the straps and pull it off. He starts to drop it on the floor, then glances at Natasha, and drapes it over a chair instead. Clint snickers. 

“Shut up,” Bucky says, and pulls his undershirt off. Clint does shut up, but mostly because he’s too busy staring at Bucky to come up with anything else snappy. Abs. That’s all he can see. Abs. And shoulders. And biceps. And—

Bucky puts his hand on his belt and looks over at Clint, who hopefully gets his mouth closed in time. Probably not, judging by the smirk that spreads over his face, but Bucky doesn’t offer any comments. He just pulls his pants off and adds them to the rest of the pile, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxers that look _way_ too good on him.  


“C’mere,” Clint says, and pats the bed in front of him. “Come on.”

Bucky nods once, suddenly looking unsure, and moves until he’s in front of Clint, a careful distance between them.

“I don’t bite,” Clint says, pulling at his shoulder. “Unless you want me to.”

Bucky makes a choked noise, but obediently scoots himself backwards until he’s pressed against Clint. “This okay?”

“It’s fine,” Clint assures him, and wraps a careful arm around his chest, settling him closer. Something in him suddenly relaxes, a day’s worth of tension melting off his body as he feels both of them press against his body. “It’s very fine.”

“Good,” Bucky murmurs, and slides his hand over Clint’s, tangling their fingers together. “Glad to hear it.”

There’s a joke somewhere in here, Clint’s pretty sure, about being snuggled by two Russian ex-assassins, but he’s too tired to come up with the proper phrasing. So he just closes his eyes and lets himself drift off. He has no idea how he ended up here, lucky enough to have something like this, but he’ll take every damn second he can get. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> There will likely be more to this. I don't know when.


End file.
